Jack Page - Call to Power: A Prime Corporate Novel

Call to Power

Copyright 2016 by Jack Page

Published July 2020

All rights reserved.

First Edition

Print ISBN: 979-8650404231

Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

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Call to Power is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To those who aspire

The young man was kneeling in front of the bed, waiting waiting for death. The aggressive cancer cells that had secretly eaten their way through his grandfathers stomach were exacting their toll. Silence was only broken by the old mans labored breathing and the loud ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. The smell of the fireplace from the chimney filled his nostrils and was the only source of comfortable warmth; as always, the radiators were nothing but a cold piece of metal. John Cromwell was at the verge of the other world, and he was ending his life the way he had lived it: With austerity and piousness. Even at his deathbed his hands were clutched tightly round his Bible. It had helped him to get through the rough life as a coal miner in the Appalachia Mountains and to get over the tragedy with his son. Faith. The importance of direction. Guidance with which he could endure all the suffering and stay true to his convictions everything was packed in that book. Now it was providing his last comfort. His grandson Paul watched closely as the hands tightened the grip around the compass that had navigated him through life.

The strength and rough skin of his grandfathers hands never ceased to remind him of the hard labor his grandfather had performed for six decades. These features no illness could erode. And even after losing fifteen pounds in the fight against cancer, an impressing virility emanated from him. Still, the scars of his ultimate struggle were taking over: He creased in aching every time he tried to open the rheumy eyes. Johns face, which even in his late eighties had remained filled with vigor and life, now was limp and pallid. It wrenched constantly as a persistent dull pain bore into his rear. The pain was worst when lying on the back, but he simply lacked the energy to sit up, to lean forward.

As Paul reminisced about his grandfathers character, his Puritan and uncompromising work ethic, and the relentlessness with which he had pursued a better life for his family, he realized how much he yearned to be like him. And partly he already was; he masked his dread even in the face of death to lighten his grandfathers departure. No worries were to plague him as to whether his grandson was fit for survival. It was hard. Terribly hard. But John had always frowned upon people who showed weakness.

Paul stared at the fierce pain in his eyes. The white in them had yellowed, as had his skin. John was exhausted, numbed, beyond the point where he could even groan to express his torment. Pancreatic cancer had been the diagnosis. The doctors had given him a couple of days at best. They said it was terminal. This had been three weeks ago. Against all odds, John Cromwell had defied the cancer, steeled his will, and endured the suffering, until finally his body had undermined his wills resolve.

The room smelled faintly of smoke as the oak logs burned in the fireplace. The fumes had picked up, scratching at the young Cromwells eyes, making them watery, sending tears down his dry cheeks. The mask crumbled.

The old mans eyelids struggled their way up once more. His lips parted. Things are finally coming to an end, Paul. I tried to raise you as a prime example of a good person, and I think I did a pretty decent job, he panted in pain. a weak benevolent smile crossing his face. John had raised Paul single-handedly since the boys teenage years.

In the ensuing silence with every beat the striking of the clock grew louder in Pauls head. It was ticking away the time they still had together.

I have given you a lot of advice, but there is one particular thing I want you to remember, John gasped through heavy breathing, while he grabbed his grandson by the shirt to pull him down all the way to his face, as if to make sure that under all circumstances he heard his weak voice.

Yes, grandfather? Paul tried not to seem flustered. In vain. His voice was barely more than a whisper, spoken as though his lungs might hold the space for only a thimbleful of air.

The words which then rose from Johns throat were slow and solemn: I am sure you will do great things in your life but watch out. People will try to bend Gods principles and their own to fit their desires, their lifestyles, their ulterior goals. They will even make the just play by their rules. He was measuring his breath as he spoke, managing only a few words of each phrase between shallow inhalations. The grip of his hand tightened, his pupils grew wider. Yet this will not change the truth. Remember that. And there will be a time of temptation for you as well promise me to resist, Paul. His voice was brittle, and his eyes seemed to focus a spot in the distance, a spot in another world; the old man was prepared to meet his creator. It was only with his two hands he was still clinging to life on earth in the left the collar of his grandsons shirt, in the right his Bible. Before he could loosen the grip on both, he needed confirmation that his grandson would not fall for the trap of indulgence.

Pauls heart grew heavy. With a simple yes he could release him. Had to release him: Of course grandpa, I will not disappoint you. Never.

At the very edges of Johns mouth, the traces of an alleviated smile began to appear, the picture of a man realizing he had accomplished his lifes mission. Paul watched as his chest moved up and down as he inhaled the little air he still could. It rose lower every time he breathed in and out. And as more words began to move Johns lips, Paul knew with a certainty that clung to his heart as ice, it were his last. Then please Lord, bless my grandson and his endeavor, whatever it will be. Now he has no one but you. With that his eyelids drooped, and the old man panted seemingly with his breath.

Grandpa! A strangled cry of protest racked through Pauls throat in an attempt to startle him back to life, but in the end, it was nothing more than a futile gesture, a scream in a sound-proof chamber. Many dead are reported to wear a peaceful expression on their face. John Cromwell was not one of them. His face was wrenched. Whether it was from the strains of life, the atrocity of his last battle, or the worries about his grandson, Paul would never find out. Still on his knees, he edged ahead and pressed his upper body against his grandfather, hugging him. He languished in sadness and sorrow as he paid silent tribute to the person he owed his life to.

He felt the tightening in his throat and tasted the salt of his own tears in his mouth. An inner uproar rose as if his stomach had been hit with a thousand volts, making it impossible for him to stand still. He stood, walked, cried, punched the walls, and finally threw himself onto the couch. But while the tears had dried half an hour later, the inner agony still tormented him. Not knowing what to do, he rushed out into the yard and wandered around in a state of utter dejection, belonging nowhere. The wind was now beginning to pick up in speed and strength, its gusts beating down all the more intensely on the spruces and wooden fences of the neighborhood. The rain had intensified, and the sky was a tumult of gray clouds through which the moon, now almost full, reeled like a pale demented ghost.